the hinton girls

I am a Mid-Western girl who was uprooted and transplanted to the south. It was the scariest, hardest thing I've ever done. I'm married to an incredible husband whom I love more than words. And I'm a mom to two beautiful girls. I started this blog to keep our far away family within arms reach of our little world. Feel free to contact me at rhinton10@gmail.com. Thanks for stopping by!

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Monday, December 14, 2009

The Potty Chronicles Part III

One night this week I ran to the grocery store on the way home. Because we were running short on time and the dinner hour was quickly approaching, I pulled into the parking lot of the fancy grocery store. Normally we don't shop there, but it's noticeably less crowded and we were in a hurry.

I tucked Chica into the seat of the cart and we took off, darting in and around the produce bins. I racked my brain for a good recipe, different ingredients flipping through my brain like a Rolodex, when Chica said the word that brings all thoughts to a screeching halt.

"Potty!"

She's a mental traffic cop I tell you.

Not to over share, but some of my daughter's systems are very predictable and I knew if she did in fact have to potty and if we were to make it in time, it would save us from some major clean up later on. And I'm not talking on Aisle 5. Ahem.

I ran to the nearest grocer and inquired of the whereabouts of the bathroom with urgency in my voice and a quick nod in my toddler's direction. Sensing my tone, he pointed toward the restroom and we took off before he could finish explaining. I jogged to the ladies' room with my toddler in tow.

Too late. She needed a new diaper. And a shoe. In all that haste, the child had lost a shoe somewhere. That wouldn't have been too bad had we not have been in a public restroom stall. I struggled to change her standing up, juggling the diaper and wipes while pinning down her flailing arms to prevent her from touching anything. Just as I was praying her cotton sock would protect her from all the germs living on the tile floor, everything went wet.

Chica soaked me.

And her pants. And her sock. And a better part of the floor.

Guess it was her idea of germ extermination.

Thanks to the rules at day care, she had a change of clothes in her bag which was hanging from the hook of the stall door, a safe distance from the flood zone.

I pulled out another diaper, dressed her, packed up her stuff, recovered the shoe and we returned to our shopping cart. Back in the cereal aisle, I let out a sigh of relief.

Just then she looked me in the eye, grabbed the waistband of her pants and yelled, "potty!"